How the Stone Heart Melted
by DiMick
Summary: Swan Queen, AU Fairytale land. On the eve of her decision to marry, Princess Emma visits the legendary stone witch, whose failed curse turned her own heart to stone, and the consequences are greater than she ever intended
1. Chapter 1

This story starts, as such stories often do, with two separated halves of a whole, searching for each other. Come, settle round Granny now, and let me tell you the story of how the stone heart melted.

xx

The group's footsteps echoed loud in the cave, mixing with the slow dripping of water from the ceiling. Their laughter and chatter died away as the heavy atmosphere underground atmosphere settled around them. Their leader, a handsome prince, waved the torch in front of his face, trying to see further into the gloom, trying to catch a first glimpse of the legend they'd come to see.

"Come for the story have you, dear?" The old woman's voice from the darkness behind him made him jump, and spin around, almost dropping the torch. Snorts of derision rose from the group behind him, and he bristled, squaring his shoulders.

"Yes, old woman" he said. "We're here for the stone witch – we have travelled many miles to see this statue." He turned and clapped a companion on the back. "This one must get married soon and we thought – who better to break the spell?" Barks of laughter escaped the party, the idea clearly ridiculous: they had come to this cave because it was deemed tradition for those prior to betrothal to chance their arm at freeing the stone beauty. The real purpose of their afternoon, in their minds, came after with an all-night visit to the local tavern and its extraordinarily friendly serving girls.

The old woman shook her head. "So many tourists, and so few saviours, these days." She settled down, onto a flat rock, and motioned for the young nobles to gather around her. "Not many folk remember now how the witch came to be stone, but I do. I was there, see. On this very rock, where I'm sitting now. As a young woman, I used to come up here and watch the water run down the walls and away into the cavern at the back of cave. I used to wonder where it went, and when, if ever, it would come back. There's magic in water, you know, old magic, older than the land, they say.

Well, I was here, watching the water, one day when in came the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Dressed head to toe in black, hair piled high on her head. I recognised her straight away, anyone would. The Evil Queen herself – that banished, reviled witch – destroyer of innocence, curser of worlds, enemy of our own dear King and Queen, here in the flesh. She swept straight in, and called down that cavern for the water spirit within.

Don't look at me like that – I know magic and the faerie folk are rare enough these days – but the spirit rose up out of that hole, a towering great man made of water. They spoke for a time, his voice too loud and rushing for me to hear, but she understood. She told him of her attempt to curse this world, to free herself and everyone else from the unfulfilled promises of happy endings, and how her heart, her weak and feeling womanly heart, had prevented her making sufficient sacrifice. And I heard what she asked for, what she begged the spirit to give her. 'Make my heart stone,' she cried, 'make me as unfeeling as the granite beneath your streams, make me as cool and unfeeling as the water that makes you, and let me rest from the torment of love'.

The water spirit granted her wish, but she had underestimated the price she'd pay for a stone heart. For as her heart turned to stone, so did her blood within it, and the veins that carried it along , and the organs it touched. Soon, all of her was stone, inside and out, as you see her now.

They say, that should someone pure of heart find the cave, and the Queen inside, and fall in love, the spell will be broken. The stone will melt away, and she will be free once again to love and live, as happily as anyone could desire."

Story done, the young visitors behind to drift toward the back of the cave, towards the focus of their visit, catcalling and chattering irreverently as they went, their disbelief in the story clear. The old woman looked sidelong at the last member of the group still standing by her stone. "You don't join them?" she asked, gesturing at the woman's friends. "You don't laugh at an old woman's story?"

The woman shook her head, blonde curls falling about her shoulders. "No," she said, her voice soft and low, gaze fixed on the distant others, "I don't. Your story is about love, and my mother always said, true love is the most powerful force in the world." She looked down at the story teller, and smiled, although it did not reach her eyes. "Not everyone is destined for true love, but I won't mock it." She reached into a purse hanging from her belt, and pushed a coin into the other woman's hand. "For the story," she said.

"Emma!" the prince called, from the half darkness, "Come on! Come and save the Queen!" She nodded at the old woman, still sat on the cold stone, and moved off, further into the cave. Her friends were clustered around the stone woman, kissing her face and making crude motions, laughing and shouting their intent to break the curse. The display disappointed her in a way she couldn't define. The statue itself, cold and unmoving under their lewd onslaught, was finely wrought – each fold of material perfectly carved, each hair distinct, the expression of sadness and longing heartbreakingly expressed on the granite face – and seemed to surge straight out of the cave's bedrock. The sculptor, whoever he was, had created a masterpiece.

Bored now, and cold, the group of young nobles began to head out of the cave, back into the warmth and sunlight of the outside world, feet firmly fixed in the direction of the nearest tavern. Hanging behind for a moment longer, Emma pressed her hand to the cold stone cheek. "Don't worry," she said, "someone will come for you, one day." She pressed her lips to the warm stone where her hand had been before, feeling foolish with the old woman's eyes on her still, and left.

Once their footsteps had receded down the mountainside, and the sound of their voices had faded into memory, the old woman finally stood up from the stone, cracking and stretching her stiff limbs. Moving to the statue, she looked carefully into the face of the queen, as she had every day for almost thirty years. Copying the action of the younger woman, she too placed her hand to the stone, surprised to still feel the remnants of warmth clinging to the white cheek.

"The daughter of Snow White and Prince Charming," she said, laughing softly to herself. "Who'd have thought, your Majesty, who'd have thought." And as she too descended the slope towards her village and home, the stone woman in the cave began to melt, dripping granite into the cavern at her feet, slowly exposing pale skin, dark hair, and red red lips.

xxxx


	2. Chapter 2

The light streaming in through the windows of the castle's great hall hit Emma straight in the eyes as she sat on the throne beside her parents. Following the previous night's heavy drinking, it hit the back of her eyes and made her groan. A hangover just made her already bad day unbearable – today was her 28th birthday, and the day her parents had decreed she would meet her future husband.

It wasn't like them to create an arranged marriage, firm believers in true love as they were, but their daughter had refused, point blank, to consider any of their social circle and, frankly, they were desperate. So they had arranged this pageant for her birthday, a parade of all the eligible bachelors in the nearby lands, hoping that just one would catch her eye.

First, a dark prince of Agrabah had ridden in on a flying carpet, offering her all riches of his sandy lands. The royal family had watched as a display of dancers had shown off his wealth and prestige, Prince Charming's mouth slightly agape. Next came a hulking bear of a man, from far in the north, clothed in furs and skins, as far removed from his predecessor as it was possible to be. There was a sorcerer, proficient in the arcane arts, a poet, a huntsman and a host of knights. Some tried to win the princess with displays of martial skill, swinging swords or staves fast and precise, shooting arrows into the centre of impossibly small targets. Some attempted to woo her with words, reciting sonnets in praise of her beauty, her wisdom, her grace. One particularly pompous suitor stood for fifty minutes, chest puffed out and face red with pride, reciting a litany of his own achievements and attributes, until one of her father's stewards ushered him kindly away.

There were men, and talking beasts, and even an enchanted tree – all of the fairytale world was arraigned before them, all competing for the hand of the fair princess. And throughout it all, Emma had yawned and rubbed her eyes, leaning her elbows on the long table and her head in her hands, tired from the drinking and the late night. Not one of her potential suitors had, well, any potential. By the end of the day her parents' tempers were fraying around the edges, and they sat, tense and quiet, as their evening meal was served.

"Really Emma," her father began, "you need to learn some manners. Sitting there yawning, when your mother and I have organized all this for your benefit. You might be more grateful –"

Snow White placed a hand over her husband's arm, calming him. She looked between her daughter and her husband, a question clearly forming in her mind.

"Emma," she started, and stopped, taking a delicate sip of water from the glass in front of her, "you're sure there isn't someone already? One of your drinking friends maybe?" Emma shook her head, and even her father laughed. Snow, not to be discouraged, tried again, lowering her voice so as not to be overheard. "Someone from your travels? Or perhaps a servant?" It had happened before, to her own stepmother. The death of a mere stable boy had changed the course of the kingdom's history, everyone knew. Before taking her first bite, Emma put her knife and fork down, and raised her hands in supplication.

"Honestly, Mother, there's really not -" Her denial died on her lips as her attention, and that of everyone else, was drawn to the doors at the other end of the hall being thrown back. Through the open doors a cloud of purple smoke was rolling into the room, filling the air with the smell of sulphur, causing those nearby to fall back, clutching at their throats and retching. The figure that emerged from the smoky haze was instantly recognisable , and struck fear back into the hearts of those that had lived to see it before. Emma and her father were both on their feet, hands resting warily on the pommels of their swords.

"You!" hissed Snow White, the look of fear and hate on her face surprising her daughter. Snow signalled the guards around the room to advance, swords drawn.

The Evil Queen made her way inexorably towards the high table, blasts of magic stopping any rushing guards that tried to take her. "Snow, James," she drawled lightly, her eyes taking in the unfamiliar figure of the princess. "so sorry to interrupt your little gathering. Surprised to see me, after all this time?" She frowned, dramatically, pushing her lips out at Snow in a pout. "Disappointed I'm not still stone? Well, you see, it seems someone freed me from the spell but didn't wait around to find out." She smiled, and the expression was cruel, predatory, and sent a shiver down all the spines of those that saw it. As she reached the table Prince Charming drew his sword, and held it out, threatening her, but the queen merely rolled her eyes and with a flick of her wrist the sword and its wielder went tumbling across the room. Perching herself on the edge of the table, she leant down towards a terrified Snow White. "You know," she said, her voice low and private, loud enough for only Snow and her daughter to hear, "I had a long time to think, trapped in that cave. And do you know what I realised? I can do anything I want, and I'm going to." With that, she reached over and caught Snow's wrist in a harsh vice-like grip, pulling her over the table and towards the door.

"Wait!" called Emma, moving around the table after her mother without thinking. The witch turned, sparks of magical energy cracking around her raised fist. "Leave my mother alone." The Queen just raised a dismissive eyebrow at the slight woman stood before her, sword tremblingly raised, and began again to drag her unwilling captive away. "Take me instead!".

Their departure stopped, and once again the Evil Queen regarded the princess, this time a hint of interest in her eyes. Emma felt the heat in the gaze of her mother's captor as it raked over her, considering. "What do you think, Snow?" the dark haired witch asked, bringing the struggling queen close to her face, a gesture that, in any other circumstance, might have been construed as intimate. "Shall I take your precious daughter instead?". Snow frantically shook her head, unable to form any words around the magic holding her in place. Emma took a step forward, laid down her sword at her feet, and offered her hand to the Queen.

"No!" cried King James, rising finally from his slumped position against the wall, standing and raising his sword with a herculean effort. As he watched, the woman who had repeatedly threatened his family's and kingdom's happy endings, dropped his wife like a leaden weight, grabbed his daughter's outstretched hand, and disappeared in a cloud of purple mist, leaving his hastily flung sword to embed itself in the floor.

As she disappeared, one thought ran through the princess' mind – what in hell's name have I done?


	3. Chapter 3

The magical journey pulled unpleasantly at Emma's already pounding head, forcing her stomach to clench and roll. The princess closed her eyes against the onslaught, and when she opened them again, she was stood in the entrance hall of an entirely different castle, one covered in dark drapes and cobwebs. She blinked, disoriented, trying to clear her vision. The air around her smelt damp, musty, as though the castle had not been disturbed in years. If this truly was the home of the stone witch, she thought, it probably had been deserted for some time.

A ripple in the air behind her reminded her of the presence of the other woman, and she turned to face her abductor, hands balled into fists at her side. The Evil Queen stood there, observing her lightly, arms crossed and a satisfied smirk on her face.

"What a noble thing to do," she said. "sacrificing yourself for your family. I hope they appreciate it. After all, it won't do them any good, in the end." She clapped her hands together, and heavily armed guards appeared at her elbow. "Take the princess to the guest rooms," she said, her smile widening. With one last look at her captive she swept from the room, skirts billowing out regally behind her. Emma watched her go, watching until the last edge of her train had slipped around the door frame, and the door shut firmly behind it.

The lead guard held the tip of his sword to the unarmed princess' back, pointing sharply at a small door and motioning aggressively. "Move!" he shouted, spittle flying, and as the door opened to reveal a flight of descending steps, Emma took a wry guess that the 'guest rooms' would not be as welcoming or comfortable as they sounded. The air that hit them as descended smelt worse than the air above, dank and fetid, making Emma cough and retch, her eyes stinging with tears. This was definitely not helping the symptoms of her overindulgence.

As she was still adjusting to the low light levels, and the rotten smell of the place, a hand in the small of her back pushed her forward, and sent her tumbling to the wet floor of a bare cell. The guard laughed as he locked her in, the key grating sharply in the iron lock. His footsteps and laughter bounced off the bare stone walls as he retreated back up the steps and out of the dungeon, leaving Emma alone in the quiet, her only light filtering in through the dirty glass of the barred window set high into the wall of her cell.

She leant heavily against the cold wall, knees drawn up to her chest, head thrown back against the stone. Some birthday this has turned out to be, she thought, mind wandering to her parents. Would they be foolish and brave enough to mount a rescue party? She sighed – she already knew the answer to that one, before the question had even finished forming in her mind. She could easily picture her father striding through the castle, organizing and preparing his best knights, planning her escape and the final downfall his wife's malicious step-mother.

How long she sat there, without any sign of life, was hard to tell. At length she heard bolts on the dungeon entrance being drawn back, and the door opened to admit an elderly woman, bent over the basket of food she carried. Emma got to her feet and watched as the woman made her way gingerly down the steps, one hand outstretched against the wall for balance. Moving to the front of the cell, Emma rested against the bars holding her prisoner, the woman too far out of reach to help or catch should she fall on the slippery stone.

Having reached the bottom of the stairs her visitor stopped and faced her, pushing her hood back to reveal thick-set curls of white hair that framed a kindly, wizened face. "Here," the woman said, the tremble of old age clear in her voice, "I brought you food. I thought you might be hungry, after your ordeal." As if in sympathy, Emma's stomach growled loudly, reminding her of her abandoned birthday dinner. The old woman chuckled softly, and held out the basket, pulling back the cover to reveal bread, cheese, and a glistening apple. Pulling the food between the bars of her cell, Emma fell on the food eagerly, devouring the bread and cheese. When she reached the apple, she paused, looking up at the woman who lingered on the other side of the bars, watching her eat.

The woman nodded, and gestured for Emma to continue. "Go on," she said, eyes flitting to the door, "she might be along any minute, and I don't want her to catch me here." There was no need for Emma to ask who 'she' might be, the intent behind the hushed tones and meaning-laden looks clear. But you don't grow up in fairytale land, and certainly not as Snow White's daughter, without acquiring some in-built suspicion of old ladies bearing apples.

Emma tossed the apple from one hand to the other, catching it thoughtfully, before bringing it slowly to her open lips, resting it gently on her teeth. The woman opposite her nodded encouragingly, eyes widening in anticipation, breath catching in her throat. It was all Emma needed to see, and she threw the apple to the floor, where it burst open, black juices running from it in all directions. A squeal of rage issued from the old woman, who before Emma's eyes was growing, shifting, changing into the towering form of the Evil Queen herself. With a snap of lightening, the queen was inside the cell, pushing the captive against the wall, pinning her with the force of her gaze.

"Think you're so clever, don't you, Princess?" she hissed angrily, eyes narrowed to black slits. "Know a thing or two about evil witches? Well, I know a thing or two about you as well." She smiled, her mood apparently shifting, and ran a hand up Emma's chest, catching her chin in a tight, unyielding grip. Her lips quirked in amusement as the princess fought to control her breathing, eyes slipping to focus on her lips, and the pale expanse of neck below.

"You see," said the queen, softly, seductively, "when I woke from my stone slumber, there was no-one in sight. And yet, of course, spells like that don't break by themselves – they get broken, by love sick fools and dreamers." Emma shook her head, fighting the queen's hold on her. It wasn't true, it couldn't be true – nothing she had done the day before had the power to break the spell. And yet, as the denial rang through her head, a sinking feeling took residence in the pit of her stomach. "There was a woman, in the village below, who the terrified goatherd I met first said guarded my cave, and told visitors my tale. When I found her, do you know who she told me had been to see me that day?" The queen smiled, eyes burning a hole through Emma's, a hole, it felt, right into her soul. The queen laughed, a full bodied, rich sound, quite devoid of true mirth.

Leaning towards her captive, she moved her hand from Emma's chin to tangle firmly in her hair, and pressed her lips to the waiting mouth below them. The feeling shot through Emma's body like fire, burning a trail through her lungs, all the way down to rest between her legs. She gasped, involuntarily, and the motion let a questing tongue slip inside. Her own hands came up to cradle the other woman's face, pulling the queen's body more firmly against her own, eyes slipping shut. When the kiss broke, Emma opened her eyes slowly, breath still coming in ragged pants, the vision of a once more smirking Queen filling her senses.

"Well well well," the queen said. "You're going to be far more fun than I thought..."

xxxx


	4. Chapter 4

Any accurate assessment of how long Emma had been confined in her cell had long since disappeared from the princess' mind. Time now, rather than being measured in hours, days or weeks, was the gaps between visits from the Queen. Her meals, wholesome fare and decent portions, hardly what she had expected, were serving by the same pock-faced guards who initially locked her in the cell. At each meal, they replaced the burning torches that had been installed in the corridor opposite the cell soon after her arrival, throwing flickering orange light in all directions. Occasionally, Emma would wake from fitful sleep to find something new in the cell with her – once there had been a clean mattress, other times fresh clothes, a book, a brush for her hair, a blanket and even, once, a finely crafted hair tie, a small silver apple fastened at each end. Though still clearly a dungeon cell, the space she lived in was becoming more permanent, more comfortable.

Perhaps there was some schedule to the visits, a pattern, a purpose, but it was indiscernible to the captive princess. Each visit started the same way – the queen would bring her apples, and Emma would refuse to take even the smallest bite. The queen would pout and plead, teasing with every half-lidded look and breathy exhortations to take a bite, just one bite, of her forbidden fruit. Sometimes, there would be a flash and a puff of smoke, and the queen would stand in front of her, apple raised to her own lips, white and even teeth perfectly poised to take a seductive bite. On those occasions Emma would knock the fruit away, replacing it with her own mouth, hands grasping needily at the queen's dress, her own body compelling her, driving her actions, even as her mind told her to cease and desist, to remember who this was. The queen never stopped her, or failed to return the kiss, but rather responded with equal fervour, clutching and grabbing, holding Emma close.

The still thinking part of Emma forced her to concede that this was most likely part of some power play, a way of distracting her from the outside world and the possibility of rescue. Another part, a small, quiet part the rest of her fought to silence, reminded her of the silent gifts, of the tie holding back her hair, and dared to wonder at other reasons. Nonsense, she heard her mother's voice say – the queen is without feeling, and don't forget it.

Once, the queen had pressed her face to the bars separating them, hand reaching through to capture her wrist, pulling Emma closer. Faces just inches apart, the queen had searched Emma's face intently before speaking. "All this time you've been here," she said, "and not one escape attempt. Why?" The question, for once, had seemed designed to tease or provoke. Its tone, and accompanying facial expression, had been sincere, nervous even, as if the asker were afraid of the question, and the answer that might follow.

Emma had looked away, unwilling to meet the searing, searching look. It was unlike her, she acknowledged, not to fight authority, not to struggle for freedom and independence. If there was a reason, a real reason, behind her lack of fight, she had buried it so deeply that even she could not bring it to mind. She'd looked up, then, stared back at her interrogator and shrugged. "I don't know," she said, a half smile on her lips. "I wish I would. But it seems so pointless, somehow." Her answer clearly had not satisfied the queen, who drew back, frowning.

When she spoke again, the old, mocking tone was back and Emma flinched away. "Come now little princess, aren't you missing mummy? Or was your poor, privileged life so lonely that you even prefer this mangy cell and my infrequent attentions?" Emma did not respond, and the queen's laughter echoed from the walls in her head, long after the woman herself had gone.


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of men's shouts and metal clashing on metal woke Emma, ears straining to make out individual sounds. The torches in the corridor had guttered out, leaving her in almost complete darkness. She stumbled to her feet, heading towards the bars of her cell. An attack on the castle was clearly underway, and she tried to imagine how long it would take them to find her, how long it would take before she was free again. As she moved, her foot caught something, sending it skittering across the floor. Fumbling in the darkness, she followed the noise, and felt her fingers close on something cool and metallic. She lifted the key to her face, wonderingly. Reaching awkwardly through the bars of the cell, she fitted the key into the lock, and twisted. To her surprise, the key slid the lock easily back, and the door swung away from her without a sound, leaving her exit clear.

She looked up and down the dungeon corridor, checking for any sign of deception. Slipping the key down the side of her boot, she made her way haltingly up the steps to the great hall and the sounds of the fighting. Opening the door, the light temporarily blinded her, having been in the half-dark for so long, her eyes straining to cope with the over-exposure of colour and detail. She stood for a moment, arm thrown across her face, waiting for her vision to recover.

The fighting, it seemed, had passed this room, and the bodies of both sides littered the floor. Making her way between the dead and injured, Emma pushed through the only other door in the castle she had seen used. The door swung easily open in front of her, despite its great height and weight, and she found herself in a spartan corridor, barely decorated with faded tapestries and drapes. To the right, light streamed from under one door, and she headed for it, legs still infirm from her long incarceration.

The light under the door faltered, then blinked out, stopping her. From behind, the noise of pounding feet drew her attention and she pulled herself into a wall alcove, held her breath and stood stock still. A posse of her father's guards rounded the corner, faces grimly set, swords drawn and bloody. She recognised the face of the nearest man, a trusted lieutenant of her father's, and drew herself further into the shadows. The soldiers raced past her, unseeing, running past the previously lit door, heading for the stairs at the end of the corridor.

Once they were out of sight, Emma emerged from her hiding place. Why did you hide she asked herself, incredulously. They're here for you, to save you. Shaking herself, she headed again for the door she'd noticed earlier, turning the handle with trepidation. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, eyes casting about for the room's occupant. Just three steps inside the room she felt sharp, cold metal slide against her throat.

"Stop right there," a low voice said. "Or it'll be the last thing you ever do." She recognised the voice behind her, and stopped her forward motion, relaxing slightly against the knife at her throat. Taking recognition for submission, the voice spoke again, demanding and harsh. "How many are they?" it asked, "What weapons do they have, inside and out?".

Taking a chance, Emma turned around to face the voice's owner. No swift cut to the neck followed and, eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness, she could make out the silhouette of the person she most feared, and most desired, to see. The Evil Queen's face, in the gloaming, did not look evil at all, but scared and vulnerable. Emma raised her hand to the queen's face, stroking her cheek, smoothing away the frown from between her brows. The gesture was reminiscent of the way she'd touched the statue in the cave, all that time ago, a lifetime it seemed now, and the queen's throat constricted with some untold emotion.

Voices in the corridor, outside the door now, signalled the soldiers' return. "You need to go," said Emma urgently. "Puff away in that magic smoke of yours. They'll be here soon, and will spare you no quarter". Their mouths met urgently, tongues and lips and teeth all pressed into service, the queen crushing Emma to her as if the kiss could transfer all her strength, her sweetness and courage, her goodness and pureness of heart. Emma pulled back, stared at the face in front of her.

The queen looked down at the knife in her hand, which seemed to be shaking. She looked back up at the woman who still held her face tenderly, before plunging the blade deep into the blonde's upper arm. As the knife clattered to the floor Emma's cry of pain was silenced by the firm press of lips, and a whispered "I'm sorry" filled the space between them.

"Go!" Emma urged, voice breaking from the pain in her shoulder, and, finally, it seemed her message had got through. Her hand hung motionless, now caressing nothing but air, and Emma brought it back towards her. It was wet, she realised, not with blood but covered in the damp of the queen's tears. The door splintered and cracked under the weight of the charging guards, magical seals protecting only the lock, and not the actual wood of the door itself. Emma watched through a purple haze as guards piled into the room, searching frantically for its former occupant, followed by her father, concern written plainly across his face.

"Emma!" He rushed towards her, enfolding her in his arms. "How did you escape? Did you see where she went? How badly are you injured?" The questions tumbled out of him, fast and with no pause for answers. She managed a smile for her father, her rescuer, before she sank to floor and blackness closed over her.

xxxx


	6. Chapter 6

Her parents and doctors fussed over Emma for days, ensuring the quickest recovery possible. The tale of her 'bravery' in escaping and attempting to stop the Evil Queen alone had spread quickly throughout the kingdom. Each day some new cloying tribute from a nearby noble, prince or king arrived at her bedside, and each day Emma ordered each one removed from her sight.

Her mother fussed around her, making sure her pillows were plumped and her mattress was soft, that she had enough water and food, that her bandages were changed more than regularly and Emma welcomed the concern and comfort. Her days in the cell seemed now like a half-remembered dream, surreal and distant, not quite true – a dream that her parents are keen that she forgets all about. They had servants wash and scrub the dungeon dirt away, cut out the ingrained tats and knots in her hair, burnt the clothes she was wearing, destroyed all traces of her imprisonment apart from the apple-ended hair tie that she cried and begged and demanded be saved.

Once, as Emma lay in a herb and sleep induced haze, she thought an old woman with a kindly face and a head of white hair stood by her bed and offered her an apple, but when she woke fully no woman and no apple were to be found. Weeks passed, and her injury healed and the princess was allowed out of bed to roam the castle grounds. She pressed all the servants and visiting merchants for news of the Evil Queen, anxious, she said, to repay her family's enemy. Her father's army scoured the kingdom, but no news was forthcoming, as if the queen had truly disappeared that day in her cloud of smoke, vanished into air and dust.

The kingdom returned to peace, its calm only broken by petty local disputes, easily put down. The trifling squabbles could not hold her attention, and even her drinking friends seemed to have lost their charm. Her parents had not raised the subject of marriage again, and for that she was thankful. So far, she knew, she had been granted recovery space, a time when odd behaviour would be excused on the grounds of her ordeal. It would not last forever, the signs of its end becoming more frequent and forceful, with new dress fittings and public engagements scheduled for just a few weeks' time.

With the dying days of her freedom, Emma decided to make one last solo trip. She saddled a horse early in the morning and rode out, leaving a note for her parents to find. A few hours hard riding were all it took to her destination, where she paid a stable lad for food, a room, and lodging for her horse. A familiar grey haired woman in the village raised a hand to her in greeting as she set out up the mountain slope, but Emma had no time to stop for idle conversation.

The mouth of the cave was dark and uninviting, dripping moss hanging from the roof, giving off a rotting smell, but she pushed in regardless. She stood inside the cave, eyes blinking as they adjusted to the change in light, listening for the slightest movement. Once she was used to the low light levels, she pressed on, into the cave, looking for a statue she had visited once before. The statue was no longer there, the smooth rock surface showing no sign of its presence at all. Foolish, she thought, that's all this trip was. The foolish actions of a confused woman. She turned to make her way out of the cave when she caught sight of the figure of a woman, sat still on a flat rock. Breath sticking in her throat, she approached, cautiously, watching for a reaction. When she was within touching distance, the figure rose, features still swathed in shadow and spoke, low and sultry. "I knew you'd come," she said, "but I couldn't force you. Not this time." The owner of the voice stepped forward slightly, and the weak cave light lit up her features. The queen had lost weight, her face drawn and gaunt, lines pinching around her eyes, and it made her look vulnerable, somehow, delicate and damageable, not the Evil Queen of bedtime tales but a real woman with strengths and weaknesses, hates and likings and, Emma dared hope, loves.

Without speaking Emma reached into the bag she carried, and pressed a key into the other woman's hand, who, by the weight and size, recognized it immediately. It was the key to the dungeon cell that had mysteriously appeared on the day of the attack on the castle, allowing Emma to free herself and escape. "You sent this to me," she said. "Why?" Her eyes burned bright into the other woman, searching for answers.

"I knew," said the queen, eyes unable to hold her interrogator's gaze, "that it was over, that my guards and spells were overwhelmed, that soon you would be free anyway. What point was there in keeping you locked up?" Her voice quivered, and Emma knew that she was not being told the whole truth. Pushing for an answer, she grasped the queen's chin, forcing her gaze up to meet her own. When no further answer was forthcoming, and the silence had stretched out beyond the limits of comfort, Emma dropped her hand and spoke again.

"I'd hoped," she said quietly, backing away, "that it was because all those weeks were more than just a power play to you. That I was more to you." Still no answer came, and Emma turned to leave. "Goodbye, your Majesty," she said. As she moved towards the cave entrance, a voice stopped her in her tracks.

"My name is Regina," it said. "I want you to call me Regina."

xxxx


	7. Chapter 7

Emma' parents had spared no expense in re-organizing their husband finding efforts. Once again, dozens of eligible catches paraded their skills and wealth before the royal family and assembled court. This time, to protect against Evil Queens, twice the number of guards lined the walls, and archers filled the minstrel's gallery, arrows notched, ready to fly. The increased amount of people in the hall filled the air with an almost tangible atmosphere, and it seemed it had rubbed off on the princess herself. Her father noted with pleasure that this time his daughter leant forwards attentively, watching each suitor with interest, speaking pleasantly with them, smiling and charming. Altogether, she had been much more amenable in the last few weeks, co-operating with her parents' plans, happily standing through dress fittings, humming contentedly in the corridors.

"Perhaps she's found someone to choose," King James had said to his wife. "It would be nice if she could make a real love match". But mothers know daughters better than fathers, Snow White thought, and she was not so confident in their daughter's choice – she remembered the way Emma had clung to the apple-ended hair tie, the way her gaze had drifted sorrowfully out of the windows in the first few days of her return, the suspicious melting of the witch the very same day her daughter and friends had visited the cave – Snow remembered all this, and wondered about the changes they were seeing.

All through the day, the parents watched their daughter watch her suitors, waiting for any change or sign that this was the man she had chosen. Yet though Emma was, indeed, kind and friendly to them all, not one was singled out for especial attention. "I don't think he's here yet," James had whispered in his wife's ear as the guests filed into the hall after lunch. Snow shook her head in agreement, watching a hooded figure slip, seemingly unnoticed, to stand at the back of the crowd. The movements were graceful, controlled, and Snow saw how the oblivious crowds parted easily to let the stranger through, a terrible feeling settling in the pit of her stomach.

The afternoon progressed pleasantly, each man being received kindly by the princess, and also kindly dismissed. At the end of the pageant, Emma stood up to speak to the assembled and waiting nobles.

"My parents and I would like to thank you all for coming today," she said, voice projecting clearly across the room, "and for honouring me with the offers of your hands. I have to apologise, however, for I must decline you all." A shocked murmur ran around the room, people turning to their neighbours in surprise. James shot forward in his chair, and from the corner of her eye, Snow White could see the hooded figure approach the front of the crowd. "You see," continued the princess, holding up her hands for quiet, "my heart made my choice for me, a long time ago." Her father looked at her, mouth hanging open, working soundlessly, while her mother thought this all sounded terrifyingly rehearsed. The hooded figure was still moving forward, toes now aligned with the edge of the crowd. Emma flung her hand out, smiling broadly, in the direction of the figure who stepped forward into the empty space, pushing its hood back as it went to reveal none other than the Evil Queen herself. "I would like to introduce you to my choice – Regina."

The crowd, murmuring just moments before, was struck silent. Even the guards, trained to respond immediately, failed to act. Not one person made a noise, each stunned by the person stood before them, until James stood from his throne. "Guards!" he shouted, pulling his own sword free of its scabbard, "Arrest that woman!" Neither Emma nor Regina moved at the pronouncement, and Snow could see that this had clearly been anticipated. When the guards reached her, the witch made no effort to resist, but merely held out her hands, palm up, in the universal gesture of submission, as they roughly forced her arms behind her back, pushed her to her knees, and placed a blade to her throat. Still, she made no move to fight back, just smiled beatifically at her princess. It was disturbing, Snow thought, how Regina had not aged since she knew her as a little girl. She was much older than me, and now she and my daughter could be months apart.

"Father," Emma said, voice calm and cooling, "this is my choice. Please, tell the men to lay off." James looked from one to the other, sword still pointing firm and unwavering at his old enemy. He scowled, his handsome face contorted with hate, and pointed at his daughter.

"She has bewitched you," he snarled, "cast a spell to make you love her, a final humiliation for your mother and I." Emma started to speak, to refute his hurtful claim, to explain how her love, unrecognised and unprompted, had freed the queen from her stone prison, but her mother cut her off.

"James," Snow said, "you know there's no spell that can force anyone to fall in love. It's one of the unwritten rules. Like bringing people back from the dead. It can't be done." She moved around the high table towards her husband, her daughter mirroring her actions. By the time she reached the frozen tableau, Emma was already there, positioning herself between her father and lover, tangling her hand tightly with Regina's. "If this is Emma's choice – and it seems it is – we have to respect it. After all, there's no greater power for good than true love's kiss."

xx

She was right of course, Snow White. The Evil Queen, once with a heart as black as night, and then as cold and hard as stone, was changed by love. Not into a fairytale heroine, who fights unflinchingly on the side of good, but into a real person, with strengths and weaknesses, hates, likings and loves. She and the princess lived a long time together, and they were as happy as two people in love can be.


End file.
